


You Are My Sunshine

by artfulinanities



Series: Just Some Tumblr Things... [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Couch Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6719068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artfulinanities/pseuds/artfulinanities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock fumbles with his keys (locked, Mrs. Hudson, book club, useless), fingers stiff from the icy rain, but still more dexterous than the average individual. He clomps up the stairs and into the flat, dropping his coat and purchases onto the floor in a drenched heap, snarling under his breath. A fire crackles in the hearth, obnoxiously warm and cheery.</p>
<p>“Sherlock?” John pokes his head in from the kitchen, chuckling at his appearance. “You look like a drowned cat.”</p>
<p>Sherlock shivers, teeth chattering, glaring in place of a retort. Could his day possibly get any worse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are My Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little smut Sunday ficlet on Tumblr. I thought it was cute, so I decided to post it here as well. :)

Sherlock stands at the window, eyes grey and flat, glaring up at the roiling charcoal clouds with distaste. Thunderstorms are tedious, the heavy rain and harsh winds a recipe for disaster. Evidence is washed away, masked by the deluge of water; criminals grow lazy, complacent, relying on the storm to cover their tracks. It’s _hateful_.

John finds him there, seconds, minutes, hours later - he can’t tell (irrelevant, really).

“Anything on?” John sheds his jacket, settles into his chair, grabs his laptop, pretending that the world isn’t completely and utterly boring. Sherlock grunts in response, swirling away from the window and snatching up his coat. He needs a fix and he’s out of nicotine patches. The stairs creak wonderfully under his heavy tread, the door slamming behind him in a deliciously satisfying manner as he stalks onto the street, making his way to the pharmacy.

The cashier is dull, the patrons are moronic, and the noise is unbearable. He fills his basket quickly, paying little mind to the contents aside from the nicotine patches. Handing over a wad of cash, he taps his foot impatiently. Ordinary people are tedious. She hands him the plastic bag with a smile, shrill voice wishing him a safe trip home in the downpour.

Oh.

Scowling at the wall of water beating down against the asphalt, Sherlock turns up his coat collar and ducks outside, the plastic bag creaking in his grasp. His curls are instantly plastered to his forehead, his coat growing heavy with water as he makes his way home. Thunder rumbles overhead and a flash of lightning streaks across the sky. Other pedestrians shriek in alarm, the horns of nearby motorists blaring as the traffic lights fade and the city grows dark.

Wonderful.

Sherlock fumbles with his keys (locked, Mrs. Hudson, book club, useless), fingers stiff from the icy rain, but still more dextrous than the average individual. He clomps up the stairs and into the flat, dropping his coat and purchases onto the floor in a drenched heap, snarling under his breath. A fire crackles in the hearth, obnoxiously warm and cheery.

“Sherlock?” John pokes his head in from the kitchen, chuckling at his appearance. “You look like a drowned cat.”

Sherlock shivers, teeth chattering, glaring in place of a retort. Could his day possibly get any worse?

John sidles closer, a towel draped over one arm, clicking his tongue in the disapproving way that Mrs. Hudson does when Sherlock’s done something wrong. Warm, steady hands help him from his suit jacket and shirt, setting the soaked fabric aside and toweling off his curls. The afghan from John’s chair is wrapped about his shoulders, smelling strongly of tea and John’s shampoo. Sherlock’s trousers and socks join the pile, leaving him in slightly damp pants and shivering in their sitting room.

“There. Go take a shower, you git.” John cups his face, his touch gentle, fond. His eyes crinkle at the corners, mouth twisting into the deep, full smile that only Sherlock gets to see. He’s absolutely radiant and Sherlock wants to kiss him.

So he does.

John makes a choked, desperate noise in the back of his throat when their lips meet. It’s feather light, just a gentle brush of skin, but Sherlock’s body feels electrified, limbs thrumming with need. He pulls back, staring at John through damp lashes, lips parted.

“Alright?” His voice is gravely, rumbling like thunder, and John’s eyes flash - lightning.

The room spins as John pushes him back against the wall, mouth demanding, hands pressing, pulling, claiming, and it’s glorious. Somehow, they wind up on the sofa, the afghan spread out under Sherlock’s back, John looming over him, his face half lit by the fire. He looks like danger and darkness and strength and adrenaline, body leaning into Sherlock and, oh, he wants. Sherlock pulls him down for a heated kiss, shoving chilled hands under John’s jumper, feeling his nipples harden in pleasure and against the cold.

“Off,” he snarls, hands clawing at the offending garment. He needs John’s skin against his own, his mouth on his, his hands on his body. Now.

“Clean?”

“Yes. _Yes, God!_ ” Sherlock peels John’s clothing off, layer by layer, lifting his hips as John returns the favour, chest heaving, eyes glazed. Now, now, now!

“Hey.” John nips at his earlobe, sucking it gently, making Sherlock whine. “Slowly. We’ve got all night.” He traces the shell of Sherlock’s ear with his tongue, mouthing at a tender patch of skin just behind it, smears kisses along his jaw. Oh. OH.

The kisses turn gentle, deep. John’s hands pin his hips and his mouth sets to work in the most devilish way. Sherlock arches off the sofa as John takes one nipple into his mouth, teasing the pert nub with his teeth and tongue. He kisses across to the other side, making Sherlock whine into his fist. Kisses and licks and nips are peppered over the length of his torso, John’s hands skimming along the insides of his thighs. Thunder roars just outside the window and John rumbles in reply, taking Sherlock’s cock deep into his throat and humming low in his chest. The sensation is enough to have Sherlock cursing under his breath, his focus narrowing down to the slick slide of John’s lips and tongue along his aching cock. John is relentless, sucking and licking and teasing, keeping him teetering on the edge, always wanting more, more, more. His orgasm builds at the base of his spine, his abdomen taut, back arched, toes curled with the need for release.

“Please, John. _Please_.” He begs (twice), fingers threaded through John’s hair. John takes him to the hilt and lets out a filthy groan, the deep rumble sending vibrations along Sherlock’s cock and into his core, setting off a chain reaction that has him seeing stars. He fumbles blindly, hands grabbing on to John’s shoulders as the rest of the world falls away.

Slowly, he comes back to himself, blinking drowsily up at John. He feels giddy, debauched, sated. John is sat back on his heels, one hand working his throbbing erection, the other cupping Sherlock’s face, thumb pressing down on his swollen lower lip.

“Gorgeous,” John pants, hips jerking into his grasp. Sherlock slides one hand up his thigh, feeling the muscles quiver beneath his palm. He cups his hand over John’s, batting him away and taking over. The angle is awkward, but the weight of John in his hand - the heat, the girth, the length - makes his mouth water.

“Come for me, John,” he rasps, eyes fixed on John’s face. He watches John fall apart, the muscles of his abdomen tightening, twitching, hips stilling, mouth falling open in pleasure as he pulses his release over Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock strokes him though it, his own cock giving a half-hearted twitch at the sight. Radiant indeed.

John catches himself before collapsing onto Sherlock, scooping the discarded towel off of the floor and wiping them both off. They wrestle with the afghan, creating a small cocoon of warmth, legs tangled together, faces inches apart. Lightning flashes outside, the howling wind rattling the windows in their frames.

Sherlock smiles, pressing kisses to John’s face. Everything is perfect, glorious, wonderful. Thunderstorms are by far the most interesting meteorological event. He hums softly, tracing idle fingers over John’s face.

‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey.’

“You romantic nutter,” John teases, pressing a kiss to his nose. Sherlock chuckles, still humming, perfectly content.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by and say hello on [my Tumblr](http://artfulinanities.tumblr.com/)


End file.
